


Failing at Standing

by Corilyn_Winchester



Series: Single Sheet Stories [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Because its canon, Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Recovery, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, comic/mcu mash up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 18,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corilyn_Winchester/pseuds/Corilyn_Winchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life hasn't been easy on him. Never gave him a break, and probably never will.</p><p>Clint Barton AKA Hawkeye, the world's greatest marksmen has been in a tug of war with depression since he can remember. He tries to do what he's heard you're supposed to do: talk and tell when you get too low. But sometimes? Sometimes it just creeps up and is THERE. In his face, unable to be ignored.</p><p>And what he did? Well he might have ended his career as an Avenger, or even as a SHIELD agent. </p><p>Contains: Descriptions of child abuse (at canon level)  Self-Harm (may be triggery) and probably a bunch of stuff that I'm forgetting</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> The way that Clint talks about his depression in his head is not meant to be sarcastic at all. He thinks that he isn't good enough. That he doesn't belong on a team with superhero's. I've tried to portray this the best that I can and feedback is greatly loved! Please leave a review if you have the time! I'd love to hear what you have to say, be it good or bad.
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned these people my laptop wouldn't be running on windows 7.
> 
> BTW: Each chapter of this fic and the others in the series was written on a single sheet of lined paper, that's the challenge of it.

The thing about it, is that its as big a part of me as anything else. Its as real as anything that's broken inside me. It is as real as the broken wrist, encased in fiberglass that covers my left arm from hand to elbow (cast comes off tomorrow).  
But I can’t mention it. Its too touchy a subject. Not like “Ow, I moved wrong” or “That's pointing the wrong direction”. It dictates my life, my every action. Always niggling in the back of my head. All hidden away with every other part of me that no one EVER gets to see. I've tried to talk about, oh no, not to anyone professionally, but to one person who actually listened, who understood that I wasn't fishing for compliments or overreacting.The only person that I ever let into that secret part of my mind. My life. My past. And its not like I haven’t tried to tell other people, ‘cuz that's what you’re supposed to do right? Talk?  
It might make sense if I clear a few things up before explaining why this is so frustrating. The person who knows is Natasha Romanov, she knows why sometimes I can talk and be social and its no problem and then half way through a conversation I can stop and practically shut down because someone said something and for some reason my brain said shut off now. The worse part is that I’m so damn good at it by now that no one ever notices me retreat into the background.How when I say “I can’t do that” or “Wow, I suck at that” I'm not fishing for compliments, I legitimately think that. I’m afraid to tell people anymore, afraid that they’ll react like everyone else did and not like Nat did. I can’t tell anyone that I think I might be depressed because it’s just not something that you do.  
Don’t get me wrong, Phil is great, but if I say that I feel like blowing my brains out every now and then...I tell him that and I’m grounded forever. And Nat won’t tell.  
It’s the fucking stigma, that’s why I’m part of the 74% of people who try to deal with their own mental illness. But that's the problem, what if I’m not really depressed? What if I am just overreacting? What if all the shit my dad did, and what the lady at the orphanage did, and Trickshot did, what if all of what they did to me didn't really fuck me up that much? I rely on tech to hear, I don’t trust easily at all, I flinch when people touch me (unless I’m undercover) and I have scars that I gave myself (I've always been more of a hitter than a cutter but there have been times). But maybe it is all just in my head. Maybe I talk because I am just looking for attention?


	2. I Missed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avenger's are great, but sometimes the pressure gets to him. The fact that he's a deaf-ass ex-carny surrounded by a God, 2 geniuses, the one and only Black Widow and freaking Cap? Well sometimes its a little much.

The Avenger's are great, don't get me wrong, but sometimes a guy just wants some space. I'll take tech increases for my bow any day (trick arrows that work? Those I'll take even easier).  
But sometimes I just need to be able to hide. Days that every little thing has me questioning my position, my skill. Everything.  
And it's not like I don't want it to stop. If I could magically fix my brain then I would have years ago. Days that I need to just sit down on the floor, back to the wall and bring myself back down. Center myself. Those are the days I end up locked on the range for hours at a time ( arm guard and finger glove absent if I need to feel). The days when every single word I say is forced and calculated. When living is too hard to do. The days that Natasha is really good to have around for (because I kind of really suck at taking care of myself when I get like that).  
I hate thinking of her like that, like someone to take care of me, to FIX me, 'cuz I never can. I can't help but think that's how my dad thought of my mom at first. As something he controlled, as a prize (she was beautiful). I'm ruining her. I can't help it.  
My life is swimming through molasses, trying to stay above the surface, but unable to always hold off the currents pulling me downwards. I need her to rescue me sometimes. She shouldn't have to, when the walls around me are a prison, closing in. All I need is to level out, give me a few days and I'll be functional again.  
But I can't help but wonder, why did I get stuck like this? As fucked up as I am. Digging fingers into my arms and punching myself until it all JUST STOPS BEING SO LOUD (ironic isn't it? That so much of my life is muffled and unclear but my mind is so loud?). Why did I get stuck with this shit!? The off and on suicidal thoughts that I won't act on because I'm a coward. SELFISH BASTARD. I can't do it because of what would happen if I failed. The things that would be said: 'He broke' or 'It was Loki, knew the guy didn't stand a chance'. I'd be proving the snare of 'Humans playing superheros' that me and Nat hear in the halls.  
And....Fuck. Don't go there Barton! Fingernails have found their homes in my forearms (they'll leave marks for a few hours). And Natasha'll show up and see me falling apart, and she'll ask me, knowing my voice won't want to work, so she'll ask with her hands: 'What happened?' and I'll reply the truth, said with steady fingers even though the rest of me is collapsing under the pressure 'I missed'. But she knows what it means. I missed so I have to be punished, and since Trickshot (the name still makes me shiver sometimes) isn't here (THANKGODTHANKGODTHANKGODTHA-STOP IT CLINT!) I'll do it myself. Take the sharpest knife I have and carve a few lines (spaced out, random so no one can see their intention) bruises and maybe a busted knuckle if I lose control and flesh on flesh isn't enough (walls leave marks but floors don't tell your secrets).  
But she'll cover for me. Say it was the battle. Clean the cuts up if I can't. Patch me together until the next rodeo.


	3. The Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the big one! Okay so seriously, the last chapter had some mild trigger stuff, this one has the thing! So just an FYI fair warning.
> 
> On my updates: I am posting what I have written since each chapter is only one hand written page long. Updates past chapter six will probably be sporadic, but will happen. I just already have up to chapter six written so, those are easy to type up and post.
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------------

     I have patterns. It's weird I know. But, yeah I'm a pattern person. I like things to happen in ways that are predictable,calculable.

     So what if it takes me 2 hours to clean and breakdown my gear if I can take my time (5 minutes or less in a rush). Its predictable, and honestly? Its calming. I control it, and control is such an important thing for me, especially now, since Loki and losing that tenuous control of my mind.

     And yes, that fucked me up. I might have gone a bit off the deep end and actually might have acted on those thoughts that chase me. I feel...horrendous about what I did, not because of what it did to me, what I did to myself, but what Natasha had to see. Had to walk in on.

     She saved my life. It uh...God. How bad is it that even in my head I can't talk about what I did. It was selfish, such a waste that I couldn't do it right there. Swallowed a bullet. But I was drunk as hell (first time in years) and I needed control so damn bad (and if I take myself out then no one has to worry about me going evil again and killing more innocents). So I tried to just calm down, spent 5 hours on the range and when that didn't work I hit the bottle. Vodka. A little tipsy and I'm slamming my fist into the floor, into my leg, my other arm. Pain helps.

     But it wasn't enough. And the thoughts are always there, so I made the decision to end it. Then and there. I took the knife (sharp as hell, as always) and I locked the door. No note, no one deserved to have to find that. And I dug in. 3 on each wrist, 2 across and one up, right arm first (let the lefty be a lefty for once). I was on the last one of my left arm when the door knob rattled (as a rule me and Nat don't lock bathroom doors), my brain fuzzy from the Vodka and the blood loss, hands starting to shake. And it was Nat.

     "What the fuck?! Clint, don't you dare move a muscle." And I failed, just like always, just like everything else in my life.

     "Nat, 'm sorry." I slur as the black edges of my vision start to take over and I drop the knife to the ground, it clatters next to the porcelain of the tub (didn't want to make a mess). 

\--------

     When I wake back up she looks scared. And that is what terrifies me. Nat doesn't get scared. Ever. "Tasha 'm sorry." And then she seems to melt before her hand meets my face in a hard slap.

     "You goddamned idiot! You were trying to...God Clint. Why?" I'm fuzzy and there's gauze covering my wrists, but I'm on the couch in my room, not in the hospital. "Why would you do that?"

     "Nat...I-" And then it all spilled out, the thoughts out of ice blue eyes staring back in the mirror, and explosive arrows wreaking the hellicarrier. Ending in a yelled confession of " I'm such a fucking failure I can't even kill myself right." But she knows. She get's that this wasn't the first time I took a blade to myself, it was just the most serious, the fact that I'm not chained to a bed in an ER or in medical proves this.

     "I couldn't get the bleeding to stop, thought I was going to have to call Bruce or....I was thinking of calling 911. Or Nick. Clint...you did a damned good job of hacking your arms open." She's never threatened to call Fury before.

     "Don't. Please. Nat, I...sorry I fucked up. It just, I couldn't be responsible for more deaths that I am already. Couldn't....you know how badly I cope." I'm still a bit drunk and definitely fuzzy from blood loss still.

     "I also know this wasn't planned. If it was, you'd be dead. No questions asked. You didn't plan on killing yourself tonight, it just kind of happened. You would have calculated every possible chance of you living and you would have taken your hearing aids out, set a blinker up." Door alarm for when I'm running silent (quiet, whatever. I can hear loud shit). "So, just promise that I won't have to find you like that again, okay? Or find your body with a self-inflicted gun shot wound?" I nod and stare at the tear that rolls down her cheek. I fucked up. Screwed over the only person who ever knew.

 

I've never seen Natasha cry before.


	4. I think I'll blame the bastard, my father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood, well it wasn't good for Clint. He had an abusive drunk for a father and a mother who wouldn't leave the bastard.
> 
> To say that he blames his father for a lot of the problems in his life would be an accurate statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deals with child abuse (non-sexual and canon compliant as far as comic verse goes).
> 
> I might have messed with some ages here, but in my headcanon Clint and Natasha are about the same age in Avengers ( around mid-late 20's), and he was 8 when his parents died. So there, just an FYI.

     I was 3 the first time my dad hit me and I remembered it. I'm sure there were times before that. A slap to the face for spilling the cup of juice I had in my grubby fingers. "Waste of money". A slap to a toddlers face for an honest mistake. It's funny thinking now, he went from a slap, simple and not all that bad, to punches within a year. Barney tried to take it for me. But he couldn't always. A year after he went to full fist punches, things started flying (me and Barney included in those objects). He always seemed to hate me more. Oh, Barney got it too, but not nearly as bad though. He always liked my older brother, big for his age, smart (but not too smart like me). By the time I was six he would full on wail on me; punches, kicks, things thrown. He broke my collarbone by throwing me into the banister on my sixth birthday (we said I got excited and fell down the stairs 'clumsy kid'). 

     There's one I don't remember, but Barney told me what happened. It bugs me that the biggest event of my younger childhood is a blank space in my memory. The punch that landed on my left temple, that sent me backwards and to the floor in a crumpled heap, slamming my head into the tile of the kitchen. I was 6 and a half when my dad hit me so hard in the head that he broke my ears. Mom called 911 when the blood wouldn't stop. When it started coming out of my ears, Barney says they moved me outside, said I fell out of the tree. The doctors believed it.

     2 years later he drove into a tree with our Mom in the passenger seat and me in the back. On the way home from the store (once they knew for sure that my hearing was fucking screwed they got the cheapest single unit hearing aid they could, and damn did that thing eat batteries), a deer on the road, slowed reflexes, alcohol the problem. 2 kids left without parents (I've never told anyone that I was relieved when they told me He was dead), one with a leg broken in 3 places and a waterlogged hearing aid, the other: older but knowing nothing more than that our tormentor (dad) and our savior (mom) were both dead in an instant. And he blamed for mom dying, said I should have protected her.

    I told people that, said I was in the car the night my parents died. _But that's just a sympathy plea! Are Barton's parents even dead? Bet they live in Florida._ People ask why my ears are so shitty, if I particularly bad that day (borderline self-destructive, on those rare occasions that I'll answer with the truth) I'll say that my dad slammed my head into something, I don't remember what, and people scoff, say : 'yeah right man, that's straight out of a sitcom drama' or 'Fine, then don't tell'.

    I wish it was just sitcom drama shit, I wish it wasn't true. All I've ever wanted was to have a family that loved me, that understood that kids will be kids. Stuff gets dropped and broken and said too loud by a kid that can't hear himself talk to know how loud he is. A father that wasn't a drunk. A mother who would have left him after the first swing.

    And maybe the nightmares (and the reason for the super high tech dual hearing aids that I have now) is all in my head. Maybe everyone feels like their family sucked. I'm not special in my past.

 


	5. And this is when the others come in....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 48 hours after Clint Barton tries to kill himself, Bruce Banner finds out. And he gives Clint some news that might be hard to take. The archer may never regain all the strength in his hands.

     Natasha put almost 30 stitches into me, superglue over them to make sure they held. Once I sober up she gives me the run down. If I can't take care of myself then I'm going to have to talk, and not just to her anymore. What I did? It was stupid, I know that. I'm not allowed my bow until all the stitches are out and the new skin can hold up to the arm guard digging into it. I'm not to be out of her sight until I've proven myself stable (whatever that means). And if I try again, or hurt myself in any way (including purposely banging my hands into anything, even though they hurt enough as it is) then she's knocking me out and bring me in. She's giving me just enough control to hold onto, but not enough that I can fall again.

     "I won't tell the others, but its on you to cover up the bandages and later the scars if you don't want them to know what you did. I understand that this has been coming for a long time and that Loki was just the catalyst. I knew this would happen the day you told me you cut. You are the best, and only, friend I've ever had, and this does not change that." I nod, staring at my hands in my lap, its terrifying how much it hurts. I can't move some of my fingers (I don't know if its the pain that stopping me or something else).

     "If they ask, I'll tell 'em." Its a quiet day, my ears are in, but I can't find it in me to read her lips to make sure she's saying what I think she is. "Nat...did I cut a tendon?" Even the stitches moving shouldn't hurt this bad. I've been stabbed, shot, tortured. I know how bad certain things should hurt.

     "I didn't check. You might have." If I cut a tendon and it doesn't heal right I will finish the job (probably too soon for suicide jokes, and who says I'm joking?, so I keep that to myself).

     "'kay."

\-------

      It takes 48 hours to leave my apartment in the tower. I need to start showing Natasha that I can take care of myself now that I'm not woozy anymore. So I wander down to the common floor (not really expecting anyone to be there, Thor is in Asgard and Steve is on the carrier) to find coffee and food that isn't fruit. I'm wearing a t-shirt and sweats, not concerned with covering the gauze and the bruises that mar my arms.

    "You get back last night?" I'd jump at Bruce's voice if I wasn't a spy (I don't hear footsteps to well).

     "What?" He's got his glasses on so he's been at work in the lab with Tony (I swear those two need to just give up and get together,they already argue like an old married couple).

      "Well you've been gone for a few days and you're banged up." My fingers fumble the mug, clanking on the counter as pain lances through the abused flesh of my left hand (the right is so much worse). "You okay?" _No, I'm really not.  
     _ "Wasn't on a mission Bruce." I ignore the question, I'm feeling especially self deprecating right then so what comes next is quiet with no inflection. "I tried to kill myself." Bruce tilts his head at me and I duck mine as I carefully pour the coffee into the mug, carafe gripped with only 3 fingers to reduce the stress on my stitches.

     "Okay. do you want to talk about why?" _Do I?_ He sits at the counter and adjusts his glasses so they sit in the right place, tea steaming in front of him.

      "Bruce...I like patterns. Control, calculations. When Loki-..he broke that. Messed with my control, and I can't...I can't be responsible for more innocents dying because of me." I use both hands to move the mug to the counter across from Bruce (Its been so long since I couldn't trust my hands to be steady). "I've been fucked up for a long time."

     "Touch of OCD?" I've been told that my patterns fit that, but I am way to scared of what would happen if I mentioned that during an eval. So I shrug. "How long ago did you do it?" He goes clinical in a second.

     "Two days-ish." I shrug again and try to shrink in on myself as I try to sip the coffee without spilling.

     "Your hand okay?A lot of times when what you did was attempted, there's tendon and nerve damage." I hadn't even thought of the nerves.

     "Kinda jumpy. Hurts. Fingers on my right hand don't wanna work." I'm almost to quiet to hear myself.

     "Want me to take a look?" He sounds sincere. "You know...the others already heard this, you're the only one who didn't. I tried to eat a bullet, but the other guy spit it out. At least if you really wanted to end it, you still have the option to. That got taken from me because I wanted to be like Steve." Bruce understands, he's been where I've been. Where I am.

     "Sure. Just...don't tell anyone okay? They don't need to know I'm more fucked up than they think." Bruce nods and I hook the mug with a finger before standing and starting towards the elevator. "Can we...I don't want anyone to see?" He seems to get that, and when I almost drop the mug Bruce is quick to grab it from me before it tips again.

\---

     Natasha is waiting for me when I get back up to my apartment. "You said five minutes, that was 7."

     "I brought a Banner. He knows what I did and he wants to look at my hands."

     Its a very painful few minutes before Bruce carefully lays my right hand down after moving it around and having me try to move my fingers. "Looks like you cut a tendon, or maybe a few. Its not going to heal unless you take perfect care of it, and even then...Clint, this is surgery level damage." He shakes his head and rubs a hand across his face. "Even then, injuries like this, even with surgery and proper care, sometimes leave the patient with pain that lasts forever, off and on. Look, do you at least have a wrist brace you can use until you come to your senses and go to a hospital?" I nod. "Natasha, by the way, very nice job with the stitches. Find the brace, get it on your right hand as soon as you can, and for your sake and the teams, you need your hands more than any other person I know. Go to the hospital." I don't want to get locked up. "Your left isn't nearly that bad, it should be fine as long as you don't rip the stitches out and you treat it like a sprain for a while."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so this chapter has some imagery that probably needs to be explained:
> 
> Natasha did small black stitches, then covered them with superglue to minimize bleeding and scaring.  
> The injury that he has inflicted upon himself is called Spaghetti wrist, and I do not recommend looking it up unless you have a strong stomach (I was fine, but blood and tendons doesn't gross me out at all). It has a 70% recovery chance at regaining most strength back. Its a sharp injury of most or all of the wrist tendons and possibly the nerves as well.  
> Natasha didn't check to see if he cut the tendons because she was more concerned with stopping the bleeding.  
> The brace that Clint has laying around is like the standard wrist sprain brace that they sell at the drug store down the road (its the longer version one)


	6. Gotta tell the boss so he can fire me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury needs to know that Barton isn't going to be active for a while, so the logical step is to tell him. Its not easy to admit, but it might surprise him how it goes.

     My hands feel like they're on fire. The right one especially, since the damage was so much much worse (Bruce couldn't figure out how I managed to hold the knife to complete my deed on the other hand, but I am an assassin, I held it between the two fingers that would clamp it tight enough).  Its not a good idea to move my fingers, or at least the ones that are moving correctly (some of the fingers on my right aren't moving when I tell them too and that's terrifying). Natasha is disappointed in me, but at least she doesn't look scared any more (I don't think I could take that).

     And I'm disappointed in myself. Its hard to think that I did what I did. And maybe this was the turning point for me. The inability to make a fist without searing pain? That might be what convinces other people that I'm not just saying what I say for pity.

     Its so hard to explain. I don't want to be like this. Don't want to be this messed up.

     I'm losing my train of thought again. The point is this : maybe trying to kill myself proved that its not all a play for attention. And maybe I will talk to someone qualified this time. Maybe psych can actually help me now, I can blame it on Loki, say its some sort of PTSD reaction thing. I'll lie about it, can't say I've always been like this. And I'll only do it because I need the physio, if I fucked up my right hand as much as I might have, then I really will be as useless as I feel unless it gets fixed. And the first logical step is Natasha.

     "Uh, Nat? I..uh...Fuck." I can't get the words out of my mouth, sitting at the counter in the common room, right lower arm encased in the bulky black brace and left splinted. Both hidden in my sweatshirts sleeves. "I...think I need to tell Fury what I did. If I'm going to be off active for as long as these are gonna take to heal, then he needs to know." Natasha doesn't answer in words, but rather she is suddenly in my face, red hair shoved between my chest and chin and arms wrapped around me tight.

     "Thank you." she mumbles into me, and I feel it more than hear it. I broke her more than I hurt myself and that's more painful then the cut tendon in my wrist, worse than how I felt when I decided to do what I did. What if I had just eaten a bullet? Would it be better for everyone else ( would Natasha be better off not having to watch out for me?) if I'd done a better job of it? I should have.

\------

     "Agent Barton." Fury says in greeting as I sit down int he chair across from him, jeans and worn pull over sweatshirt with my SHIELD ID handing around my neck. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Fury has always been the master of sarcasm, but in the 2 months since New York he had yet to direct at me until that statement.

     " You need to remove me from the active duty roster for while." His good eye widens. " And I need to see medical.

     "And why would that be?" If Phil wasn't offsite in recovery (Level 9 or higher facility) then I would have gone to him.

     "I did something stupid." I'd planned this, the brace replaced by a splint (Nat had done the actual work) held on by the least amount of tape possible to reveal the gauze covering the act of 2 and a half days ago. I push the sleeves of my sweatshirt up carefully under the edge of Fury's desk, trying in vain not to wince when my fingers twitch. " I tried to kill myself a few days ago." I look down so I don't have to see his face and put my hands up, showing the evidence of my deed.

     "Then yes, you're off active, get your ass down to medical." I look up at him, he looks...relieved. Like he's almost happy that I'm telling him. "Barton, how bad?"

     "Nat thinks I might have hit a tendon, maybe a few, in the right one." No need to bring Bruce into this.

     "Romanoff knew? And she didn't find it necessary to report this?" _Please don't get mad at Nat._

     "She found me sir. I asked her not to tell anyone, she left it in my control as long as I didn't do anything to break her trust again. She'd had me on her own version of watch." Psych is going to take my control away.

     "Okay. She's not going to be suspended then. You are, technically her supervisor still, so she was following orders. I'll have you escorted down to medical and tell psych to go down for a consult. As per regulation you will be placed on a 72 hour hold and be required to speak with them until they release you from restricted. And Barton...for my sake and yours, don't lie to them. If they put you on anything, take it. I need you in the field, and someone has to be able to take the Hulk down if necessary." He punches a code into his phone.

    "Wait...I'm not fired?" _I'm not going back to jail?_

     "You are far from the first agent under me that's tried to off themselves, and I am very happy that you didn't succeed, and that you weren't reported to me, you came in on your own." I came in because I ruined the one good thing about myself. "SHIELD's mental illness policy is the same as it's substance abuse policy." Treatment. Restricted duty. Re-qualification.

     "Really?" I might tell them that I've felt like shit forever if that is all I have to go through.

     "Yes. Barton you've been off and on depressed since we brought you in. Don't look at me like that, its the truth." How did he know? "Its always been a question of when, not if, you'd do this." He motions to my hands on his desk. "Just never got to do anything about it because you never admitted it was an issue, I always knew you'd either end up here, or in a coffin. Just be glad this ain't your funeral." _Am I glad it's not my funeral?_

\---

I leave a message on Natasha's phone a few hours later. "72 hour hold. Left should heal fine, surgery for the right int he morning. I'm not fired but I have to see psych. Off active for at least 2 months, depends on how my hand feels. And how much of my brain is broken. Yeah, bye Nat." 


	7. Hour 110

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They took away all semblance of control in that gray and black room. The TV in the corner is a distraction, but he can't understand it and that's just not okay. He tells the doctor that, but its no use. They talk at him, ask questions he can't answer. If only the TV had captions, or they'd left him his ears. Then it wouldn't be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title refers to how many hours since he tried. 110 (about 4 and a half days) at the opening of the chapter.  
> Words like this ~sdjflaksjfd~ are signed. Lip read stuff is like normal talking. and words represented by dashes (-----) are words that Clint misses, but knows were there.

     Psych is...a bunch of assholes is probably a good term for what they are. They took away my control over everything. I have to do whatever they tell me to do when they tell me to do it, but this is how I get back in the field so I do it. There's nothing in the room that I could use to hurt myself (besides myself). The TV doesn't have captions and they took my hearing aids (something about noise being a trigger?) . So I pace. A lot. 

     They let Natasha come see me after 48 hours. My left hand is bandaged still, splinted flat so that it heals well. The right is worse. From elbow to knuckles its immobilized, including my thumb. They put the tendon (s) back together and gave me pain meds, so it doesn't hurt so bad now, but they took my ears and my hands are fucked up so I can't sign and do you realize how bad this is?! So, yeah Natasha.  She's in a standard issue uniform, black pants and vest (probably training newbies).

     "Hey." I see her lips form the word and try to smile, but it probably looks painful.

     "No ears." Her expression tells me that my volume is off. "Sorry," I'm still too loud most likely, but I might also be slurring.

     ~You look worse.~She signs and I know she's right. Whatever chemicals they're pumping into me aren't making me feel any better. I just don't care anymore. I should have argued for my ears and a TV with captions, so it was something other than wordless news feeds and QVC.

      "Not sleeping." I mumble and shrug. "Only got a day until they eval and see if I can go. Hope they do." I know I'm rambling but I can't seem to stop.

     ~How you feeling?~ She glances at my arms, the short brace on the left and the long one on the other.

     "Empty? Hands don't hurt 'smuch now." Definitely slurring(I only do that when I can't hear myself). " 'm not supposed to, but I can move my fingers better now." And without the lances of fire that were there before.

     ~What did they give you?~ She sits down on the edge of the bed, forcing me to stop pacing so I can watch her hands.

     "Don't know. Anti-depressant thing. They said my brain chemistry whatever is really screwed up. Don't know if its just me, or mind control left overs. I can't focus." That's the one thing that it did that I can't ignore. Focus is control, but they took that. Took the one thing that I NEED right now.

     ~Tell them that.~ I shake my head quickly. ~Clint tell them. If you can't focus that's bad." Natasha said I'm the most focus driven person she's ever met. It comes with being a sniper.

     "Short term. Only gonna be on them for a bit longer." One week or less drugs, meant to stop people like me from being uncontrollable the first few days. "Thanks for coming to see me Nat." I tug at the top strap of the bigger brace ( I'm too out of it to stop the nervous tick). "Fury knew. About me being fucked up before...this." I hate talking when I can't hear myself, especially when I can feel the slur creeping back in. 

    ~Its Fury, what did you expect.~ She seems to scoff. ~Why'd they take your ears?~

     "Triggers apparently." I shrug and stop tugging at the Velcro. "What'd you tell the team?" Bruce deserves to know.

     ~Mission. Told Banner though. He won't spill.~ I nod and she precedes to tell me all the things that have happened in the world.

     It helps.

\-------------------------

     "Agent Barton--------." Psych wants to evaluate me, but they haven't given me my ears back yet. Makes it hard. "Are you ----to me?"

     "If you just asked if I was listening to you, the answer is no. I am not listening to you, mostly because you'd sound like a humming AC unit if you talked loud enough to be obnoxious. If this is going to be verbal, I'll need my hearing aids back." The doctor curses and starts digging through the bag he brought with him before pulling out the clear case that holds my in-ears. I snatch it off the table quickly, awkwardly pop it open and even more awkwardly position them before hitting the green button on the remote (after turning the dial down, its not a smart idea to have them on full after so long quiet). Sound floods back in, overwhelming as it always is after being quiet for more than a few hours (its proven through how difficult that was that I am going to have to go back to using my really old ears for awhile, the over ears I haven't even touched in over 2 years).

     "Now that that's taken care of. I asked if you felt that you were no longer a danger to yourself or others." Stupid question. 

     "If you're asking if I'm going to try and off myself again, the answer is no. You even think Romanoff could get scared? Because she can, apparently I scare her.Its terrifying and I will not be responsible for that again." All lies are built on truth.

     "Really? I didn't know that she possessed the emotional capabilities to express fear. That's good. Now, in order for me to release you from the psychiatric hold you have to agree to the following terms: you will have 2 hour check ins with a person of level 6 clearance or higher, excluding Agent Romanoff. An electronic vital signs tracker will be fixed to your person at all times until you are fully released. For 2 weeks you will meet with Dr. Holden for 1 hour every day, you many choose the time. After these 2 weeks, it will be at his discretion the frequency of your visits. It is in your hands who is told about this directly, but any agent above level 7 with access to your file will be able to see it. It will be listed under major injuries and medical information. Any medical personnel will be informed upon opening your file to treat you. Do you agree to these terms?" I nod and he pulls what looks like a parole anklet from his bag. "Leg. This stays on or we assume you are attempting suicide again and you get raided by a full team. You've been on those teams, you know not to underestimate them. And if you scared Agent Romanoff, well then she gets to lead that team." I nod again. "Stay on base for the next 4 days, then you will be allowed to leave as long you keep your check ins. Physical therapy wants to start with you in the next day or two, miss an appointment with them, its like missing a check in. You have no access to the range or training floors, as well as the armory. You are on the no-go list for SHIELD sanctioned missions until you are fully medically and psychologically cleared, as well as re-qualified to at least a level 5 asset status. You will regain your level 7 clearance when this occurs, although you may not be on this list for level 7 missions. As for your work as an Avenger, as long as you are medically fit, your work in that capacity is to your discretion."

     "Am I allowed to call the tower?" He finishes adjusting the tracker and nods. "Thanks." And I leave the room as soon as he waves me off, effectively ending my 72 hour hold.


	8. A Double Crossed T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Holden is the first doc at SHIELD to see through one archer's bullshit. He's good at his job, and he might just be able to break through the tough exterior of Clint Barton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MEDICAL INACCURACIES: I've never been in therapy so I don't know how it works, but I did take a Psychology class....so I know some stuff? Okay yeah,and I googled (so that helped).
> 
> Enjoy!

          As far as psych doc's go, Dr. Holden isn't all that bad. He doesn't take bullshit like the other ones I've had to talk to over the years (after particularly hard missions you have to get cleared). Dr. Marks in particular, he was the one that cleared me after the whole Loki thing, make sure I wasn't going to go evil again. He was so easy to fool, sitting there, fresh bruises on top of the countless ones from the battle (he hadn't even noticed that I came in with more every time he had to see me).

     Holden calls me on it the second time we meet (I'm not hitting myself, one its way too painful of a thought, what with the state of my hands, and too much of a risk with the anklet).

     "Barton, look. I'm not any more thrilled to be here than you. You think I wouldn't rather be with a guy who actually wants help? Instead of you and your sarcastic remarks?" I've been fairly un-cooperative (can't make it too easy on him). "You wanna know why I got into psychiatry?" I nod and shrug. " Sophomore year of college I stole a handful of my roommates sleeping pills, only reason I'm not dead is that I vomited it all back up as soon as they hit my stomach, apparently I was allergic to them."

    "You're not just saying that to 'make a connection' are you?" He shakes his head, and I know its the truth. His face says it all ( as a spy, I always look for hints like that. As a deaf guy, I'm really good at it. Better than Romanoff). "Good, how much longer do I have to stay here?" I want food.

     "Half hour. You ever hurt yourself on purpose before?" And there it is. Should I tell?

     "No." Spy. No hints that's it a lie.

     "You sure? Because I did the intake evaluation on you. Took all the notes that everyone else wrote down, added my own. You never saw me, but I observed you for weeks. I'm the one that determined if you got a Specialist or an Agent before your name." Specialist's didn't get the mission details or the the recon missions that Agents did. They could only advance so far. "I signed it off for agent, even though I knew, from experience by the way, that this, " He gestures to me, right arm tucked into a sling (the swelling had gotten worse) and left limp in my lap. "was going to happen."

     "I might have punched a wall once or twice." He deserved that much of an admission from me. "Was it really that obvious?" I knew that I hid it well (but 8 years ago I wasn't as well trained at concealing my tendencies, I still signed over my verbal words and cracked my knuckles when I was nervous, the first habit had been much harder to break), so how did this guy know?

     "Takes one to know one. Good, that's progress.Now, last time we met, you were reluctant to talk, why is this?" I'd acted stubborn, but there's a much simpler reason.

     "Batteries were dying." He raises an eyebrow. "Hearing aids? Didn't have time to switch the batteries out before I got shoved over here yesterday." Medical had grabbed me to check the surgery site, gotten pissed and forced me into the sling (I really do want it to heal correctly though). "I don't like talking when I can't hear myself." 

     "How'd it happen?" Should of seen that one coming. Eh, not in a great head space, so he gets the truth. 

     "When I was little, my dad, he uh...he slammed my head into something, I don't remember what . But it broke the little bones in there." Cochleas, that's what they're called. 

     "Damn." And we go back and forth, if he asks something I want to answer then I do, if not I redirect. He takes notes and at the end he closes the notebook and puts the pen down on top of it on the table. 

     "You want to know my professional diagnosis of you?" Oh joy. This part. I knew it was coming but I'm still apprehensive before giving a slight nod. "You're depressed, and its complicated by obsessive compulsive tendencies. What you've told me leads me to believe that your brand of depression isn't situation induced or anything like that, but probably persistent. The switch in your brain is flipped. And its made worse by the fact that even when you try to help yourself, you get stuck." 

     "My patterns?" Well that would make sense (I get...lower than usual I guess, and then get stuck on something, like cleaning or shooting for hour on end, until someone stops me or I come up with a better alternative).

     "Exactly. Those are called compulsions, and honestly? Those are the least of your worries, I've never met a sniper without a touch of OCD, the better the more likely, and I've heard you're the best. They don't run your life, so they aren't a problem. That right now is your blatant trust issues and the self mutilation you seem so fond of. I'm going to prescribe you something, try it. One a day at the same time every day. Either morning or bed usually works. Anti-depressants, long term ones. See if they help any. But you need to call or go to medical or the nearest ER if you start feeling suicidal again okay?"

     "Yeah. Of course." And then I realize what he said. I'm slow today okay? (The meds they have me on, painkillers mostly, and the last dredges of the not-quite sedative, are making my brain fire at about half speed). "I don't have a self mutilation problem, I'm not a cutter." _Is that a lie?_

     "Really? Because you have 2 old scars on your left leg in the same pattern as the match set you gave yourself. Those look to be self inflicted, but then there's the other one. Faded, almost concealed by the nicks and those 2 exit wound scars you've got in the region, and impossible for you to have done to yourself. Its on the back of your shoulder. 2 crosses over a longer, thicker center line." I didn't know that anyone had noticed that. "What's so significant about that pattern to you?" Fuck it. He probably already knew and I wouldn't put it past SHIELD to dose me with truth serum if they don't know.

     "Its a shot through T. Trickshot." I bite my lip, I've never told anyone (not even Nat) what my mentor did to me.

     "Trickshot?" He doesn't know that he is the reason I never miss. That missing wasn't an option. 

     "The guy who put a bow into my hands the first time." And then it hits me. I might never be able to shoot my compact again, or the compound (my recurve can be adjusted to a different draw weight, the compound can too but to a lesser extent, the compact was built to my exact specifications). I might not get enough strength back to shoot at my weight.

     "So....he marked you?" _He did more than that to me._ I nod. "And you used that pattern anytime you hurt yourself?" My voice doesn't want to work. So I shake my head : no. "Clint, why did you follow that pattern? The double crossed T." BECAUSE HE OWNED ME. But I can't say it. Words stuck in my throat, like a child again, afraid of how my voice will sound to everyone else. A shrug. "That's not an answer. If you get too much more uncooperative, then I will place you back on hold, and you don't want that, do you?" No! Come on, its easy! TALK DAMMIT. 

     " 'Cuz he owned me." I say aloud, but quietly, barely a mumble. " 'Cuz he taught me how to shoot a bow and for every time I missed I got punished because I wasn't good enough, like I always am. Insufficient. 2 across and one down." It all spills out.


	9. The Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first place he goes is the Tower, it isn't just where all his friends (can you really call them that: his team?) should be. Its where Natasha should be, and that all he cares about right then.

      The first place I go once I’m able to leave base is the tower. I don’t really know why...I guess it just feels right, I mean, I have an apartment not far from there, but I really don’t have the dexterity for keys. My left hand is still in a small splint, just enough so that I don’t accidentally rip the stitches out, but small enough that I can use my fingers easily. My right though? Its in a mess of a brace/cast thing that makes it impossible to do anything more complex then use the limb to hold things to my stomach (and I don’t want to admit it, but it hurts to do that sometimes).

      I’ve got a pair of standard issue tactical pants and a t-shirt on, things that were laying around my rarely used assigned bunk at HQ, and the sweatshirt I was wearing when I went there. I’m able to hide my left hand completely in the sleeve, the thumb hole useful in covering the brace, but its no use trying to hide the right at all, so the sleeve is pushed up at the top of the...thing, holding my hand in place. I know from the reflection in the windows outside HQ that I look like shit.

     I enter the tower through the garage that is set aside for daily vehicles of the tower’s residents (IE: The Avengers and Pepper, I think Rodey might have a car down here too). Natasha is here, or she’s on a SHIELD mission (but she would have told me if she was shipping out), her blacked out Audi is parked next to my mustang (she’s been looking for an upgrade, tired of me beating her to places). And Steve’s motorcycle is in its place across from her car.

     “JARVIS, where is everyone located?” The AI freaked me out at first, you see I don’t locate sounds very well (generally I can do left/right, but anything more complex than that is a glance to Nat and nod in the right direction), and the fact that he doesn’t have a face means that reading his lips is impossible, but the robot butler speaks loudly and clearly enough that I can understand him most of the time, except when my ears are out (which doesn’t count) or if I’m really tired or distracted or concussed).

     “All Avengers members currently in the tower are located on the common floor. It appears to be movie night, Miss Romanoff is among them.” Shit. I can’t get to the floor that Natasha’s and my room is on without crossing through the common floor (security measure).

     “Thanks, could you let her know that I’m back? I don’t...feel like socializing.” I need a nap. The pills they put me on are kicking my insomnia into high gear, so I’m catching a few hours here and there whenever I can.

     “In light of recent events I can see how you might feel that way.” Right, JARVIS knows everything that happens within the tower walls and outside them as far as his sensors reach.

     “Who knows?” Hopefully he didn’t tell his creator.

     “Only Miss Romanoff and Dr. Banner are privy to the events that transpired here 10 days ago, although according to my programming and SHIELD’s integrated protocols that I have access to, if at anytime, within the bounds of my sensors you attempt to...finish what you attempted, all sentient life with a level 5 or higher clearance in the tower will be notified immediately.” I should be upset by the invasion of privacy, its not like the anklet is coming off anytime soon, but I’m not. I’m kinda.. I don’t know...that someone (yes I know JARVIS is a computer, but he makes better decisions than a few of the humans I’ve met) cares enough to threaten that. And if he cares like that….doesn’t that mean that his programmer told him too?

     “Thanks J.” I scratch at one of my ears ( the over ears are old and I’m not exactly used to wearing them again after so long with the in-ears and the even smaller in-canal hearing aids SHIELD gave me), but I’ve taken to wearing them because the other one’s are just way too hard to position correctly without bending my wrists.

    “They free you or did you run?” She knows I hate medical.

    “They let me go.” I say quietly, looking down at where the sweatshirt sleeve brushes my fingers.Suddenly I don’t want to talk,and even those four words I had to force out. I’ve never wanted to revert to ASL so badly.

    “Clint” I lift my head up when she says my name. “You still look terrible.” I shrug at her words, harsh yes, but not inconsiderate, not if Nat says it, especially if its true. “Are you sleeping at all?” Another shrug. “That's not an answer.” I try to talk, come on it’s easy!, but I can’t. The words aren’t working and I twitch the fingers on my left hand, going for the next best alternative. “Clint…” And then her arms are wrapped around me, a tight hug that actually seems to loosen the pressure.

    “Few hours.” I whisper into her ear. “The medication they have me on...it uh, it makes it hard to sleep.” I almost tell her that it isn't hard to get up when I do sleep though, that I can get up without fighting. I never even knew it was a struggle until it wasn’t.

    “So, are you, doing any better?” She’s almost as awkward as I am, but at least she pulls far enough away so I can see her lips when she talks. Its weird, its all still there. The little voice that’s telling me I deserve the sharp stabs of pain. That it’s my payment. But it feels like its got a different purpose now. Yes, I deserve to live with the pain and the marks, but not because I failed like I always do, but because I did it to myself, and no one else should have to pay for what I did. I’m not fixed, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m getting better. And if better is as good as I get? Then its okay. Because I have people that care, at least I think they do. And at least one that doesn’t look at me as just a tool in her belt, and she’s standing right in front of me. So I nod. “What are you gonna tell the rest of the team?”

    “I tore a few tendons on my last mission. I’m also not allowed to spend the night here, have to go back to HQ. Should get lifted in a week or so.” I’m only allowed out of the building for a few hours at a time, freaking curfew shit is back in place. They do it agents on probation, which I guess I’m on.

     “And if they ask what happened, later. Once you’re back on active, what will you say then?” I’ve thought about it a lot actually.

     “Depends on how I feel that day. If they see the scars and ask straight up, then I’ll tell, no matter what. But if they work around it and don’t come straight out with it, then maybe I’ll lie. They put it in my file Tasha. Stark, Rodgers, they’re gonna find out eventually.” I don’t know if I care if they know. Different people judge differently.

     “They’re not marking it out?” Redacting.

     “No, anyone who has my file will be able to see it. Pertinent medical information, probably go right next to the thing about my ears.” It says that I have hearing loss, but there’s no other mention of it, its been decided that if people, handlers in particular, want details they have to ask me directly. I force a little smile at her, and she knows it fake, but its something.

     “I’m glad you lived.” Its as much as an I love you from her. And then her head is back between my shoulder and chin, arms tight. Loosening the lump in my throat.

     “Me too.” And this time, I think it might be the truth.


	10. Captions on life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha finally does get him to leave the garage and join movie night. Its not a comfortable experience.

     The team's heads all turn when I flop (grace left in the elevator) onto the couch in the common room. I'm not exactly happy to be in the presence of the other Avengers, but I'm still proving myself to Natasha again.  
     "Well look who's back and banged up!" Tony calls out from the other end of the room, his eyes catching on my right arm in its obvious injured state. "Why do you still have your comm on?" Right. Hearing aids they can see, the team doesn't know. Its not relevant.   
     "Not comms Tony." Nat shoots me a glance and with a slight groan I roll my eyes and tell him. "Hearing aids." His eyes widen and Steve whips his head around to face me.  
     "What?! The hell happened on that last mission?" Oh, that's interesting. He thinks this is new.  
     "Stark, I've been almost deaf for most of my life, they're not exactly new." Natasha's characteristic snort laugh makes me raise an eyebrow at her. She knows I'm not in a talking mood, or a social mood, but she also knows I'll try. "Stop looking at me like that."  
     "Wait, you've been deaf this whole time and we never noticed?" You never noticed because I didn't want you too. That one was Steve.  
     "Yes, this thing." I hold my right arm up, showing off the post-surgery brace. "Makes it kind of hard to get my normal ones in place." More like near impossible.   
     "Huh. How bad?" My file doesn't list it, just a quick mention of permanent hearing loss,but I'm not opposed to telling people and I'm also getting frustrated ( it's way past time for my pain killers).  
     "'Bout 80%." Generally I lie and say 60-65%, but honestly I'm not embarrassed or anything by it. Its just a part of me.   
     "Still there? Steve sounds hopeful, and Bruce is just watching me carefully.   
     "Gone." I shrug. My head feels like it's going too fast and I'm tired and in pain, but I'm also a spy. A master at concealing my emotions, concealing myself. Natasha is the only one in the room who can probably tell I'm about to crack as soon as I let the facade down. Bruce is the only one (as far as I know anyways) who knows what's going through my head right now, or at least has an idea of it.  
     "Well damn. You don't....sound like it." Everyone expects me to have a speech impediment, but honestly I only sound weird when I can't hear myself (Nat recorded it once so I'd know).  
     "Happened after I learned to talk Tony. It's whatever." Can't we just watch whatever this movie is?  
     "Oh. Okay then." Tony seems to drop the subject and it looks like Steve takes the hint as well.  
     "What'd you do to your arm?" I'm prepared for this.  
     "Fell on it way wrong, tore two tendons. I'm out of the field for at least 2 months, maybe more." Tony whistles and Bruce looks away.  
     "That sucks man. Least it was your right." Tony's a lefty like me, so he was the first of the team (Nat excluded like always) to notice.  
     "Very true." I bounce my knee up and down, anxiety getting the best of me, I really don't wanna be around these people right now. "So, what we watching?" I can deal with it. _Just keep it together, then you can leave._   
     "The Game Plan." Never heard of it. And then Tony does something I wasn't expecting him to think of. There's captions running along the bottom of the screen.   
     "Sounds good." T.v. and me have a very interesting relationship. I can normally deal without subtitles, but it makes it a lot easier and less frustrating when they are on. Also, the older hearing aids I've got on, they just  aren't quite as good as my usual ones, so I'd probably end up with a headache trying to follow the movie. "Thanks, by the way." I nod a Tony.   
     "I've got a cousin who's hard of hearing,figured you'd appreciate the captions." Huh. Interesting intel there.  
  
\-----------  
      I'm able to calm down while the movie is playing, just keep my eyes forward and breath. Natasha sneaks her hand into my left and rubs her thumb along the exposed skin near the knuckles. An anchor.

 

 


	11. Sounds and Pain

     Physical therapy hurts. Like so bad I almost don't want to go. I'm allowed to be out of HQ now, for as long as I want as long as I check in every 6 hours. My psych appointments are only twice a week now, and this particular day I had psych and physio and an ear infection (fucking BTE's, only ever get these when I'm using them) so I'm a little dizzy and I feel like shit. But at least they took the stitches out of my hands yesterday (but that gave physio the green light for almost full motion). So when I get back to the tower all I want to do is curl up on the couch in my apartment (after taking some pain meds because my entire right arm is throbbing) and try not to vomit. But no,of course that doesn't work out for me,because of course as soon as I get comfortable (at least as much as I can anyways) Natasha bangs open the door and draws a gun on my face. Shit. I missed my check in.  
     "Not doing anything. Sick." My watch is set to alert me 5 minutes before my call time, but I must have missed the beep since its on my left hand and that's the ear that's all gross right now. My head is pounding and I want a nap. "Please put the gun down Nat." She seems to believe me and tucks the gun into the waistband of her pants.  
     "Sitwell called me, thought you might just be asleep or in the shower. Didn't want to sound the alarm since he saw you at HQ earlier and the anklet was transmitting normal." She's not facing me straight on and my right ear is my worse one, so I don't get all If what she says, but I can fill in the blanks. "You look horrid." I'm nauseous and curled around my right hand, laying on my left side facing the TV (plastic bucket in easy reach, I know how I react to ear infections) and pointlessly watching whatever cartoon is on (no captions, I don't care enough to fight the remote).  
       "Took my crazy pill this morning, don't worry." Natasha got on me for calling my anti-depressants crazy pills the other day, but if I call them that then she knows I’m okay, at least as much as I can be. She’s worried, I can tell.

       “You’re not crazy Clint.”She’s speak-signing, obviously noticing the missing hearing aid when I looked at her. “You in pain?” I’m still partially curled around my arm.

     “Already took pain killers.” I know I’m speaking too softly. “Feel like I’m going to puke.” Sitting up so fast was a bad idea, the world taking on the wonderful tilt of vertigo that comes from fluid in the inner ear.

     “Let me see your hand.” She sits down next to me on the couch and when I don’t respond she gently takes my arm, running her finger along the knuckles, looking at the new brace that replaced the massive one. “How long until you are finally free of one of these?” I lean into her as she looks at the closures, figuring out the clasps.

     “It’ll be after I go back on active, that's for sure.” The actual date is yet to be determined, but I’ve been told that I’ll have lingering nerve damage forever, but it shouldn't mess with the integrity of the joint. “Can start leaving it off just around early next week, long as I don’t do anything too strenuous. Gotta sleep with it on though.” She pulls on the tabs and releases the black material from my arm (it doesn't slide over, just sticks together only the top, covers my thumb and wrist, ending a few inches short of my elbow). She’s careful, running her fingers along the ridge of my knuckles.

     “You gonna be able to fire your bow?”Her thumbs move along the inflamed flesh, painful but in a good way, loosening the muscles and tendons, ligaments tight from taking on tasks they aren't used to. She seems  to time the throbs and rolls her fingers with them. Messages away a little bit of the pain.

     “Don’t know until I try.” If I can’t, then I don’t know what I’ll do.

     “Get some sleep, you have a fever, don’t deny it, I can feel it from here, and I know you aren’t sleeping very well.” The only person I’ve been able to sleep through touching me is Natasha. I’m super sensitive to touch when I’m asleep, so is Nat, but to a lesser degree. Its a combination of being a spy and one of my deaf tendencies, honed by years in the circus and the orphanage.

\-------------

     When I wake up my head is in Natasha's lap and my arm is back in the splint and propped on a pillow at my side. The first few times I broke an arm I’d ended up on top of it while I was asleep, unconsciously trying to protect it, and it took until Phil and a compound fracture a few years back to realize that if it’s propped up, even just a little bit, I won’t make it worse by pressing my body weight on top of it. Its from how protective of my hands I am, which is ironic with what I did to myself. My hands are weapons, and a means of communication(and not just by writing). I was six when I lost my hearing, and I was terrified of speaking for at least 3 months after, but my brother decided that we could learn to talk in a special language, secret from our parents (we tried to teach them,but they never remembered anything we showed them) and together we learned how to sign. Stole books from libraries and practiced all the time when we could, and Barney would force me to talk, even when I was afraid to because I couldn't hear myself. Barney is the reason I don’t sound as deaf as I am. The point is: My eyes and my hands are the best parts of me and I am very protective of them.

     “How long was I out for?” Her hands tell me 3 hours. “Thanks.” And I move to sit up, but apparently its too fast because the room spins and my stomach doesn't like that very much. Natasha hands me the bucket just in time, but at least there isn’t much in me, so its over fast. “Fucking hate being sick.” She runs her fingers through my hair as I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand (the left finally free since the stitches are gone).

     “I know you do.” She makes sure it’s too my right side (shouldn't fall asleep with the hearing aid on, but I didn't mean to and she didn't take it off). “Come on, you’re all gross, go shower.” My shirt is sticking to my slightly and if I tilt over and have to catch myself on the couch when I stand she says nothing, just hands me the bucket to clean out once I’m steady.

     Duct tape and plastic grocery bag cover my right arm and I find myself staring at the thick, ropey, bright pink scars on my left wrist. They’re ugly and gross and they’ll never leave me. I should have to see them, the ugly evidence of my indiscretion. They physical reminder of my failure. And the only reason that I haven’t gone back to finish the job, is that they took all my weapons and I promised Natasha. The water bounces off the anklet and the plastic bag. I know this should make noise, that it does make noise, but I’ve never heard it. I probably never will. I don’t think of myself as disabled, I never have. I may have a disability but it doesn't affect what I do, and how good I am at it. And the only time I ever even notice what I’m missing is when I look at something and know it makes a noise, but its too quiet for me to tell. That's the only time I miss the stupid noises, like shower spray on plastic. Every Time I have an injury that needs to be covered in the shower, it just hits me, not even sure why.


	12. I told you he Owned me, Marked me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter do apply: Please heed the tags and proceed with caution, nothing graphic sexually, but there is some blood in this one

I was 10 when Barney decided we needed to leave the boys home (he was right around 13 at the time). He found the circus, Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders. Somehow he convinced Carson that he needed 2 kids in his group. Barney was big enough to haul boxes and help set the stage, I was useless dead weight.

     Until one day. I’m sitting, banking the old flyers off the big top and into an empty box. Ball it up and toss (repeat, repeat). Every single one goes into the box, wind used to my advantage and not a single stray sheet. Every piece hitting the same spot on the tent post (my aim has always been amazing). And the Swordsman saw. He had me try it with a rock, different weight (wanted to see if it was practice or talent). I hit the target, so he took me on. The practically completely deaf kid (the state replaced my hearing aid, but in the circus actually having the batteries for it was a luxury) who could throw anything he was strong enough to move with the accuracy of someone with years of practice.

     He had me throwing knives by the end of the week, and I was in his show a month after. The crowds loved it. The small kid, not even 11 by then, throwing weighted knives and hitting the target (if not the mark) every time. The Swordsman wasn’t a nice man, but I would later learn that Trickshot was much worse. The Swordsman...he was a drunk (like my father) but he was also a gambler. And gambling was big business once the big top closed down for the night. and one of these nights there was a higher wager on the table (of course I didn’t know this at the time). You see, the Swordsman had an idea, I had crazy good aim, but I was small, not exactly strong. And Trickshot, he had huge arms, broad shoulders (its not easy to fire a bow, again and again and again, it takes a lot of arm strength), so he thought that maybe if I worked with him for awhile, I’d broaden up as well. So the deal was this: if the Swordsman won the game, Trickshot had to train me a few hours a day with the smaller bow he had laying around. And the Swordsman, well he never made a bet he wasn’t sure he was going to win.

     The first time I fired an arrow I knew that it was what I was supposed to do. He handed me the smaller bow, a toy practically (fading blue and starting to crack), and told me to shoot it. No instruction, no glove or bracer, but my fingers were already started to harden from the knives. So I looked it over, glanced at the target and repeated what I’d seen him do during countless shows. He’d made pulling back the string look easy (fingers above and below, never on the arrow itself) but it was hard. I released the arrow after aiming it, and it landed way too high, burying itself into the edge of the target. So I grabbed another arrow from the pile at my feet. Too low, about 4 inches below the center of the target. I couldn’t hear (batteries dead) and he knew that, I’d mentioned it. Everyone in the carnival knew I was deaf, so it wasn’t a surprise or anything. One more arrow, I guess that he had been trying to get my attention. Probably yelling my name. It hits inside the center ring, and a split second later I’m being spun around to face the man. Even then my lip reading skills were better than they should have been, so I know what he’s saying when I come face to face with him.

     “This your first time shooting?” He’s nice about it, speaking slowly so that I can catch it all. I nod and he smiles (all teeth and scary). “Do that 100 times. Then go -----.” I miss the last word but I nod anyways.

     I hit my first bulls-eye the end of that week. Trickshot never expects anything less from me again. And 2 weeks before I turn 12 he marked me for the first time. I’d been double dealing in shows for almost 2 months by then, had been given the name ‘Hawkeye’ . But I was sick, both of my ears full of fluid (infected) so my balance was even shittier than normal and the act we were doing included a shot into an apple stuck on a table, but that wasn’t the issue. It was the fact that I had to fire upside down then flip to the ground. We’d done it 100’s of times. But never when the world was as tilted as it was that night.

I missed the apple.

     Not by much, the arrow imbedded itself in the target behind and slightly left of the piece of fruit. I do the flip, but stumble when I land, nauseous and upset about missing. It was the first time since my first bullseye that I completely missed the target. He yelled at me for what felt like years, punctuated his words with punches and kicks. He held me flat on my stomach, pulled the thin T-shirt I’d changed into over my head and carved the first double crossed T into my skin. Oh God, it hurt, burned so bad I could barely breath (ribs on fire from the beating too) and the pounding pressure in my head was so bad. He leaves me eventually and I vomit before curling in on myself. Hands pressed to my head. Barney finds me there a few hours later, dried blood sticking the shirt to my back (but its a black shirt so he doesn’t see it) and curled on the ground behind Trickshot’s trailer. He drags me up and to our trailer, and sometime during that night my right eardrum ruptures. It does mostly heal after a while, but that night my right side becomes my bad side, where before they were evenly shitty. I’m off for awhile after, not able to compensate fully, but everytime I miss by more than a centimeter, he reopens the badly bandaged wound on my shoulder.

     I was 12 years old when I started punishing myself whenever I thought my aim was off. I was 12 when I stopped working with the Swordsman. My time was no longer split 3 ways, just acrobats and Trickshot then, no more throwing knives. I was 12 when...this is in my head. Come on, you can tell it in your head. Working through these things, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing, part of ‘getting better’. Here goes, admit it (not even Natasha knows). I was 12 the first time Trickshot raped (and God does that word sound gross. It feels so wrong. I am not a victim.) me. It wasn’t the first time I’d been...violated (that word is better), but it was the first time by someone I thought that I could trust (even through the training and the beatings). 


	13. Not the only: Not the most Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there be feels

     I know that me thinking (believing) that I’m a useless failure isn’t a good thing, it’s close to backwards progress. I’m not going to tell Dr. Holden that though. What scares me most about the whole situation isn’t that I might not be able to fire my bow (even if I am terrified by that thought) but rather it’s how the rest of the team will react to what I did when they find out. I know it’ll be better if I tell them than if it’s by accident or if someone else says something. The scars are bad, and its obvious what they’re from, especially the left since there was no invasion and reclosure of the wounds. My brain feels like its betraying me, and I’m not sure if its the uphill battle I’m fighting, or the crazy pills. And what's worse is the possibility that this is my new reality. I might never be able to be who I truly am again because I’m a ‘danger to myself’.

     Turns out I don’t need to worry about Tony finding out, he’s been down in the lab non-stop for a few days (thats not weird at all though). He calls me down to the lab 3 days after I get the 33 stitches out and its not for the reason I’m expecting (he keeps saying I need to come down to look at the new arrowheads he’s designing. Bruce is down there too, doing something on the computer (the massive see through screens). My head is still throbbing from the pressure in my left ear, but half hearing is better than no hearing, so I’ve got one of my nice aids in (thank God I can get it into place correctly now). I will not admit to tripping on the stairs on the way down to the lab.

     “What do you want Tony?” I tug the sleeve of my shirt down a little bit more ( no thumb holes for security).

     “Romanov said you were good at targeting calculations. Fix this.” And then he’s shoving a tablet at me, a simulation showing on the touch screen.

     “Okay, are you telling me that Tony Stark, genius weapons designer, can’t figure out a math question?” No one has the eye for projectiles that I do, I’ve never met anyone that does at least, not all my aim is point and shoot. Its wind speed, gravity, distance. Its numbers.

    “I could have, this is just effective resource allocation. Figured it’d be faster to have the expert in that field do it than have to become an expert at it.”It’s slightly frustrating that I have to check his lips to know what he’s saying.

    “The gravity is off, you have it set to 9.7 meters per second, should be 9.8. Change that and adjust the blast to be...2 or 3 more Newtons of force and it should be fine.” I am not smart, I will never be called smart, but physics? That shit I get.

     “The hell? How in the world...you didn’t even use a calculator.” I shrug. “Well damn. SHIELD ever test your IQ? ‘cuz if its over 140 feel free to allow yourself in here whenever.” Bruce and Stark have a weird ‘genius only and of course Pepper’ rule for the lab.

     “Nah, dude, I’ve a got a GED. Probably wouldn’t even break 100.” Thats a low ball, they actually did test all the assets, and I never found out the result, but it wasn’t low, I know that for sure.

    “You just solved my auto targeting issue is like 5 seconds. Fine, fine, whatever secret math-physics genius. How about we do some more? Real time?” And he’s got the repulsor on arm by the time I set the tablet down on the workbench.

    And that’s how he finds out. I’m good at being one handed, so the immobilization of my right hand isn’t an issue, I’ve had some practice. What is a problem though, and how Stark manages to see the ugly scars on my left wrist, is that I get roped into doing more targeting calculations, and I blank on the reason for my long sleeves long enough to roll said sleeves up to my elbows. I’m typing something into the tablet when I feel his eyes on me and hear him talking, but I can’t make it out.

    “What?” I turn to face him and realize the shinning pink new skin is showing on my arm, but it would be even more obvious to shake my sleeve back down over it now.

    “I said, the notation in your file was vague.” He knew before I came down here. “And Bruce wouldn’t tell. “ At least it wasn’t complete with the pictures I knew they took. And Banner didn’t break my trust. “All that’s there is the date you were admitted to medical for what they ‘injuries sustained in suicide attempt’.”

     “That’s ‘cuz it was.” I say quietly and set the tablet down. He’s not staring at my arm, he’s looking me in the face (I look like shit, bags under my eyes and still slightly nauseous). Tony was the least of my worries as far as people finding out about It. Steve’s is the one I fear the most, he’s a man from a time when people like me got locked up forever.

     “Why’d you do it?” God, I haven’t even been able to explain it to the psych doc.

    “‘da know.” I look down at my feet, but I can’t keep my eyes there. Too frustrated to not at least try and catch the words. My knee is bouncing when I lean on the table, and I can feel the buzzing I’ve come to recognize as anxiety building inside me (and Stark's arc reactor is the exact same shade of blue that covers my nightmares, so I’m just plain jumpy around him).

    “Like this weight that wouldn’t let up and got to be too much? Like you just couldn’t get free of the pressure?” He says it in a monotone and YES. That is it. “ Ask your girlfriend what it says in my file.” I knew what it said, hell I got the full copy since I’m technically still Nat’s supervisory agent (just for paperwork reasons).

    “Volatile, doesn’t play well with others. There’s a note in there that Nat couldn’t read, it was your psych profile, I left it closed.”

    “Thanks for that.” He says something else, but the angle is off just enough that I miss it.

    “Missed that, sorry.” I hate making people repeat themselves, it reveals a lot about my weakness.

     “Clint, I’ve tried 3 times. Different person found me each time. Rhodey, Happy, Pepper. I’ve got something called Bipolar disorder, and if I forget to take my meds...well. Anyways, when I say that I get it, understand it, I really do. I mean it, trust that.” He grabs my left hand and turns it over in his, scars up to the light. “This does not define you.” He’s looking right at me, sincerity in his eyes. “They got you on antidepressants or something?” I nod a little. “Good, take them until they tell you to stop. And if thats never, then who cares. This is gonna sound super cliche, but I kind of like you Barton. And that’s not something that a lot of people have earned, I don’t generally like people. Stick around for awhile, alright?”  I nod and tug on a string at the end of my shirt sleeve, hiding in plain sight once he releases my arm. 


	14. On my Feet Again

It is one month after I tried to take my life. About a week after Stark (Tony by now) found out and revealed his own dirty little secret. My ear infection is cleared up, so I can finally use both my hearing aids again. It’s been one month since I took a razor sharp blade to both my arms. And today I finally started trying to help myself. The shift is subtle, I don’t know why, but I can feel it, and I know Natasha can see it. I just...I woke up this morning and the first thing I thought wasn't ‘Fuck, I made it another day’, it was that I was hungry. So innocent, so random, so much of a difference. I didn't even think about it until I went to shower and saw the ropey scars on my wrists (I can take the brace off to shower now, just not supposed to lift anything without the support). But even then, it didn't hurt. Looking at what I did doesn't hurt anymore. It startles me. I don’t know if its something I did, or if I was distracted just enough, or maybe just the medication. Maybe my brain chemicals are evening out finally.  
Whatever the reason is, I’m going to use it to fix this. It’s taken a month for me to be sure of the fact that I really do want to get cleared and be back in the field. And for that to happen, I need to help myself. I need to actually try and get to the bottom of this and figure out what messed me up. I need to try. And in my opinion, the first step is trying to tell Holden what’s happened to me.  
When I sit down across from him I start talking before he does, which is odd since normally he talks about ten times as much as I do.  
“I was 12 the first time I cut.” It’s been something he’s been asking repeatedly, but he never got an answer. “I stopped after a few months. My brother, I’ve mentioned him right?” He nods. “He noticed the little lines. So I stopped for a while, started punishing myself other ways, shooting without my arm guard, my glove. Things like that. But it was there and I wanted to, all the time. And by then I knew I was a failure, it was all I had ever been told I was. It was easy to go back to that place, where I was the smallest, the youngest: hell, my only saving grace was my aim, and we got paid yeah, but not much, and all my money went to fucking batteries for my hearing aid. So there, answers some of the questions you had about me.” He’s watching me carefully, trying to see if I’m lying, but I’m not and even if I was, he’d never find out.   
“Why the sudden change?” He taps his pen on the tablet ( its a stylus, whatever).  
“I don’t know, all I know is that I’ve got one month to fix this. You know Rogers, Captain America, got hurt last week? You wanna know why?” The Avengers have been called out 4 times since I got yanked from active. “Because I wasn’t there, watching their backs. He was distracted because the eye’s in the sky wasn't there to pick off the bot that tossed him into a car. I need to be back out there.”  
“You found your drive. That’s good, really good. Anything else you want to talk about?” Yes I do.  
So, I tell him, all of it. About how for as long as I could remember I was just a tool in someone's belt. Told him that I forgot to clear the table off before my dad got home and I’d gotten a first to the temple for it ( and so much worse than normal because he wasn’t drunk yet), so hard that I crumpled instantly, smacking my head another 2 times on the way down ( or so I’d been told). I told Holden that I was in the car, that I was actually happy that my father was dead. And I told him what the lady at the boys home did.  
I was tiny for my age, leg in a huge cast, mostly deaf (it took the state while to replace my aid). She pretended that she was the one to trust, that she wanted to help. She wasn't. She was a predator, evil, sick. She did things and FUCK. I told Holden this already today. I do not need to repeat all this shit again, even if its in my head, actually that may be worse, since it's just sitting there stewing.  
My watch beeps and I walk out of the office before Holden can stop me. He says something, but I pretend I can’t hear him, its reasonable.  
That night I wake up screaming. It’s 3 am and Natasha kicks the edge of my bed, knowing that calling my name would be useless. I jerk awake and back myself to the wal, hyperventilating before I see that it’s Nat and try to calm down.  
~You okay?~ She signs and I resist the urge to nod, she won’t be happy if I lie, so I just scrub my left hand over my face hard, pulling at my hair and she sighs (I can see it in her shoulders) and she scoots onto the bed next to me, not touching. I’d flinch.  
“Sorry I woke you up.” I knows its too loud and probably slurred a bit. It might have been stuttered as well.   
~Its okay. You want to talk?~ I shake my head no and close my eyes for a second to try and bring myself down STOP PANICKING, just a nightmare. She snakes her arm around my shoulder and I lead my head onto her.  
“Just a nightmare. I’m good.” That was definitely slurred, but her only response is to squeeze my shoulder. “I’m good.” Loud, but clear, at least I think (I can’t be sure).   
~You are shaking.~ She turns so I can see her hands ( and yeah, I can feel the tremors, especially where my right arm is resting in my lap, brace vibrating against my leg).  
“I know.”  
~You’re not going back to sleep are you?~ I shake my head again. I can never fall back to sleep after a nightmare.


	15. But I am, and maybe I deserve it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is all introspection. It takes place 100% inside of Clint's thought process, and as such it is slightly jumpy with its topics, it might feel out of order but this is on purpose.
> 
> On my updates::: GUYS i GRADUMATATED!!!!!!!!!updates will probably be much closer together now, this story has many more points that I want to hit that are yet to be written, but once my family goes back home and I can write in peace I will.
> 
> As for my other fics if anyone is reading them: Wow, I did not expect The Silence of Many to get such a response. As for Coming to an Understanding, that fic is written. Completely, its just not typed and I am missing a vital piece of paper that has the next 3 sections on it, so thats the delay on that one, and I might end up just rewriting those sections or moving somethings around.

 

     I will never admit this to anyone but myself, and I hold this to be true. It always will be true, at least I think so. Its weird. I want to be back in the field, I want to be the eyes in the sky again, to help my team. But I don’t really want to be alive. I’m not going to try anything again, that’s not what I’m saying, but I’m not going to try extra hard to stay alive. No one would really be hurt by my absence, Natasha might punch something when she’s alone, but only because I was able to help her even when I couldn’t help myself.

      I’m not lying when I say I’m no longer suicidal. I won’t try,  because I won’t break a promise like that, not to the woman I love. But I also don’t want to bring the shame on to the team that that action would cause. They say that suicide is the coward's way out, that it’s selfish to such a degree that it's unimaginable. I don’t really believe that, it takes a lot of bravery to end it.

 

Trust me, I would know.

 

     But, it is selfish and cowardly all the same. And I can see how some people would label the action as that, but those people that call it that, they don’t understand. They think it's because messed up people….people like me-I guess I can count myself in that statistic now, want to hurt those who hurt them. But everyone who ever hurt me is dead, except for myself. I am my only real enemy that is left standing in the end. My father, he’s dead. So is my brother, even though he didn’t deserve it, even though he never really did anything to hurt or harm me, but I still feel like he did, it's irrational. Trickshot is dead, I know that for sure. I saw him bleed out, with a bullet from my gun in his stomach (I wanted him to suffer).

     But still I’m left standing. Every time that I was hit, every time that I was the victim, I deserved it. Holden said that I didn’t. That no kid deserves to be treated how me and my brother were, and no wife as our mother was. I don’t believe him. Don’t get me wrong, I know that domestic abuse is a crime, that no one should have to put up with that, but I also know that there were kids out there that had it way worse. That have it way worse. I know that me and Barney were lucky in a way, that we could both be dead. But, I also know that we could have been a thousand times better off. And that if we were, if our father acted how fathers should, stern yet forgiving, that my life would be completely different.

 

I wouldn’t be disabled.

 

     Its harsh, looking at it in that light. If my father, although he doesn’t deserve that title in anything more than a mere biological standpoint, had been good at his job of raising a family, I would be able to hear without tech shoved in my ears. I would know what Maria Hill’s laugh sounds like (its too quiet and high pitched for me to understand), along with countless other things that normal people take for granted. But my life would be different. I would not be the marksman that I am today, I would most likely not know how to shoot a bow. With that filter firmly in place, I know that my life could have been worse. What if I spoke out of turn, at a bit younger of an age maybe, or if I’d lost closer to one hundred percent of my hearing? What if it had been Barney? There’s no way that I would have thought to learn sign language for him, like he did for me. I couldn’t have initiated the plan to run away and join the circus the way he did. I wouldn’t have been able to look the situation straight on and face it.

     I know that it's hard to comprehend this, especially while I try to rationalize it to myself, but it makes sense. Its not cowardice, it's not the ultimate act of selfishness. If I had cut a bit deeper, or if I’d just swallowed a bullet or jumped off a roof, if Nat had walked in 20 minutes later, it would have been selfless. My living is selfish. Keeping this curse, the Barton name, alive, is selfish in every degree I know it to hold. I promised myself a long time ago that I would never pass it on, but myself? I deserve to hold the weight of those before me, as the last surviving member of a horrid family. To end the curse, the name, at myself.To be the last.

     So in a way, I deserved the abuse. I deserved the drunked, and sometimes sober, punches and kicks. I deserved what Trickshot did. Because someone had to atone for the sins of their fathers, and why not it be the youngest? The last of the line, to end it all. I am not a religious person, and that's not what I am trying to equate this too, not in any sense, but rather, that someone had to pay. And it just so happened that it was me. And thats fine. If I have to live whatever I have life I have left with the weight of that knowledge on my shoulders, then so be it.

     What's really weird, at least in hindsight, so 20/20 as always, is that I’ve never thought of myself as ‘disabled’ before. I mean sure, back when I was little, right after it happened, I got upset and screamed and cried about it, saying that I was broken. But it's only recently that I’ve begun to label myself as that. The word has such a stigma to it, and I really wish it didn’t. I think maybe….somewhere is my screwed up head….I wish that I wasn’t, more than I wish anything else.

 

But you know what is worse than admitting I’m disabled? What has a bigger red flag attached?

  
Admitting that I have a mental disorder. That I am depressed, and have been for as long as I can remember. That the fog is just now lifting, the fog that I didn’t even fully see (and my eyes are everything to me since when you lose one sense the others have to pick up the slack).


	16. An Arrow to Play

     I haven’t told anyone this, not even Natasha and I find it hard to even tell myself that it was true. But when Loki had me, I could hear like I never have before. Or at least, like I haven’t since I was a little kid.

 

      There’s a lot of what happened when Loki had me that I don’t remember, but that is as clear as day in my mind. The arrow that blew up part of the helicarrier, that killed 14 amazing men and women, it made a twang when it left my fingers. The asgardian had no need for soldiers that were less than perfect, so he fixed me, even if temporarily. I don’t remember shooting Fury, or aiming at Hill, but I know that I did. And I also know that I must have been fighting the control that was over me, because I missed.

 

And I don’t miss.

 

     Not at that close of range, not on that easy of a target. So, whatever he did, I wasn’t as mindless as everyone seems to assume that I was. I remember flashes, bits of what I did. I remember every second of the fight with Natasha, and I remember wanting to kill her. Really, truly wanting to kill her. And it terrifies me. Truly and absolutely terrifies me that I wanted to kill her. I mean it, in my heart, in whatever soul I have left, I wanted her dead. And I wanted her dead by my hand.

     Its a good thing that a human body can only do so much, even when driven by pure will power and stubborn determination. The body starts to shut down, and three days of killing and attacking and fighting had left me weak, even if I didn’t know it. Even if Loki didn’t care. I was his puppet, his soldier. Natasha can beat me in a fight any day, but she was injured and scared. And I knew it, he knew it. He used that to his advantage, the slight limp from her fractured ankle (she’d shot herself up with high intensity low drop painkillers, something SHIELD dubbed ‘The Black Ops’ that we’d both used in situations that required it before). And she saw scared, I remember it on her face. She was scared that she would have to kill me, and I used that.

 

   I used my partners fear against her.

 

     It's only the fact that I was going to drop from low blood sugar soon that she was able to get the upper hand. I was extorting her weakness, and it almost worked.

 

     When I woke up in medical I screamed. I’m not exactly sure why, but I did. And then Nat was there, and I didn’t have any rage at her and I think I might have cried. I’m not sure, its pretty fuzzy. But, it took a few, maybe longer. But I came around, I was me again. And she made sure I drank some water, and some juice, because since I was thrashing around they couldn’t get an I.V. line started and I was seriously dehydrated and down on nutrients. Moving too fast still sent my head spinning, and she forced me to get enough sugar and calories in me to function.

     I’d tried to kill her. And she tried to save me. And she did, I wouldn’t have eaten the MREs or downed the bottle of apple juice. I would have gone out, guns blazing and would have probably passed out and fallen off the building or some equally stupid way to die. But I didn’t, because of Nat. Because of the woman I love, and that I tried to kill.

     God, it sucks. I can’t let myself be near her when she’s asleep. I just can’t. I feel like I’m going to slip back into that bright blue haze of rage and anger and determination and kill her. I’m afraid that I’ll succeed this time. For years, we have shared a room if not a bed, and now we can’t. Because the second she falls asleep and I’m left awake, I have to leave the room, and lock the door behind me and get far enough away that I can’t hurt her. That my entering the room as she sleeps would wake her. And if I fall asleep before her, then I wake up soon after, afraid that I slipped in my sleep, that I unconsciously tried to end her life again. I panic, and the only thing that will stop it, that helps, is seeing her alive. Just for a second, and then I have to go. Normally, when I have nightmares, I guess I should probably call them by their proper name, nocturnal panic attacks. Because yup, I have anxiety issues, but those aren’t new, not exactly. I’ve had that particular problem for a few years, but it's always been something vague, just impending doom, fear. A flashback to the botched Bahrain mission, or maybe Baghdad or more recently Syria. SHIELD had agents on the ground in every major conflict, and it seems like I always end up in the shit hole places. Never something so focused as killing my partner.

 

    “So, Clint. I’m glad you finally came around on this. And, you seem to have made a fair bit of progress, enough so that I think you may be able to get back to work. On a few conditions of course. You stay on the medication, it seems to have done a lot of good for you and I think it might just be a chemical imbalance that needed to be corrected, and in cases like that, you probably won’t ever get off of them.” Holden types a few things into his tablet. “Its really not a big deal, and honestly? SHIELD kept you on full active with fucked hearing, they won’t care if you have to take a pill once a day.”

 

     “Are you saying that I passed my psych eval?” I’d given up and told Holden everything, and it actually wasn’t as painful as I expected it to be.

 

     “Yes. Contingent on what medical says, you could be back in the field as soon as next week.” That was the real problem. My wrist still hurts, pretty bad sometimes, but I think I might be able to fake it enough for medical to clear me.

 

     “Then thank you.” And I stand, shake his hand and walk out the door. Straight to my mustang and to the tower.

     I promised myself that I wouldn’t touch my bow until I was ready. Until I passed my psych eval and could flex all my fingers, I didn’t want to drop it, or slip on the pull. I wanted to fire it, so bad. But I think now I can. So I grab the case and head down to the range, check the string, put the glove on my left hand and adjust the brace on my right (I know my limits fairly well and there is no way that my hand can support the pull unassisted yet).

     The tension feels good, the pull in my arms and the resistance that is so familiar. I choose my recurve, the one that I go to when I need the release, and I haven’t adjusted the pull weight yet, I need to know how much I’ve lost. The arrow flies wide and high, but it hits the target. The recurve doesn’t have as heavy of a draw weight as my other bows, but it's still too high for me right now. I won’t adjust this one,because it's only off a little.

 

     But it tells me a lot. If I’m off on the recurve because of the draw weight then I’ll barely be able to pull the compact or the compound. But it also means that I eventually will be able to go out with it again, because I haven’t lost it all. And I lose a second arrow, and it hits in the black.

  
I allow myself to smile. 


	17. We Need to Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. The final chapter.
> 
> This has taken way to long to post, and has been sitting, written for probably more than a month. 
> 
> I'd like to thank anyone who has reviewed, given kudos, or even just clicked on this story. 
> 
> And here's the question: 
> 
> Should I do a sequel? Or is this really the end?

     I need to tell Steve. It’s just gotten to that point, and Holden, even though he passed me, recommended that my next step be to tell my team. I’m not healed, and I don’t know if I ever really will be, but I’m better. A lot better. Most of the team already knows, and I’m sure that Thor would have trouble understanding it (I wonder if Asgardians have these issues). So that leaves Cap. And telling him what I did, it’s not the only thing I need to do. My coping skills suck...obviously, and I need to figure out ways of dealing with stress (and anxiety) that aren’t detrimental to my health. So I go to Natasha first (like I always do).

     “Hey Nat, can we talk for a second?” She’s beating the crap out of a punching bag in the gym, but pauses when I say her name. “Could you turn around please? I promise, it’s nothing...bad.”

     “What’s up?” Her red hair is plastered to the base of her neck and little beads of sweat liter her forehead (she didn’t tape her hands).

     “So, two things. I can shoot again, so as far as Avengers stuff goes, I’m active again. I’ll uh, have to use my rifle for a while, but..yeah. I passed my psych eval, so I can have weapons again, I think. It wasn’t very clear.” She smiles at that, seemingly relieved at my statement. “This is going to sound super cheesy. Okay...my coping skills are horrendous, you know that. And...I need your help to find some new ones. But...I think I figured out why out of all of the things in my life...Loki,” My voice breaks slightly on the name. “fucked my up so bad. It was the control, he took that, and I knows that’s not an excuse but just let me finish.” I look down at my arms, scars covered by long sleeves still. “I want to hate him, with everything that I have. I want to hate him 100% so badly. But I can’t.” It’s an admission I’d made to Holden just a few hours previously.

     “Why not? Why can’t you Clint?” She steps closer to me, uses a finger to tilt my chin back so I have to meet her eyes. “Hey, don’t shut down on me.” It takes that statement for me to realize I’d been trailing off, getting quieter as I spoke.

     “Everything about myself that I don’t like. That I didn’t like, I’ve been able to fix for the most part. My balance was shit, so I learned to walk a tightrope, things like that. Nat, when Loki took my brain, turned me on you, on SHIELD, he took away the only weakness I can’t do anything about.” My voice breaks again.

     “Are you saying…” She looks confused, if only slightly.

     “Natalia Alianova Romanova, you have a very pretty voice, I wish I got the chance to hear you sing or just talk for hours.” My world had faded back into murmurs by the time I’d said I’d like to put an arrow in the Asgardians eye.

     “Clint…” Her eyes betray her, I know she wishes it hadn’t happened, or that it’d stayed. “You can’t practice that part of you away, but you don’t need to. Thank you, by the way. Now, coping skills. You like books.” And I know that everything between us will be okay.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

     “Steve we need to talk.” He’s on the common floor, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

     “Hey Clint. About what?” Here goes it all.

     “First off, what I am about to say does not make me a liability, nor should it make me weak in your eyes.” I pause, wait for his nod for me to continue. “I’ve put up with a lot of shit in my life, and it all kind of built up. Recently I...had what is referred to as a breakdown I guess. Now, I’ve been cleared by a psychiatrist, I’m on medication, antidepressants. A few weeks ago, I wasn’t on a  mission for that week I was gone. I was being held by medical, and then confined to base. Steve...I need you to not freak out, but I will understand if you do. I need you to look at me the same as you always have.” I look up and meet his eyes, his jaw tense and lips tight in a straight line. “ The injury that I came back with, I gave myself. I did not land on my hand wrong, but I did have to have tendons repaired. Steve...I tried to kill myself. Took a knife and flayed my arms  open, did a hell of a lot of damage to myself. Sliced through the right so deep I cut 2 of the tendons that control the hand. So, now you know.”

     “Post traumatic stress disorder, is that what this is?” He sounds broken up, seems confused about whether to be angry or not.

     “No, just...depression I guess. It’s a chemical thing, don’t know if...I was just destined to be, or if...I was so unhappy for so long that my body forgot how to…” I’m expecting him to walk away. “You can be upset, you can yell at me. It’s okay.” And it really is. I’m prepared for the reaction I expected him to have, the reaction of someone from the 30’s and 40’s.

     “I’m not upset with you. I’m pissed off at whoever cemented the fact that your life was so trivial in your head. I’m pissed off, not at you, but at the fact that someone, somewhere, told you that you weren’t worth it.” I thought that Steve wouldn’t be able to understand. “You’re okay now? Better at the very least?”

     “I think so.” I’m wearing a t-shirt, scars publicly visible for the first time. It’s scary.

     “Good. That’s all I care about. This team needs you, I need you. No one else see’s what you do in the field. I know that for a fact now that you’ve been out for a few calls. I can’t always plan everything because I alone, am not the tactician that we need out there. You are. And together? The two of us are good at it, face it.” He takes a deep breath. “Clint, you are worth it. You deserve to be happy, to have friends, to love, to laugh. You don’t deserve to die and I know, wholeheartedly, that every other person on this team agrees. So please, don’t forget that your life's worth living. If you ever need to talk...I’m a good listener.”

     “I’ll try. And thanks.” But I know that he means it, and it's...true.

  
The End.


End file.
